


night terrors

by Sparrows



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Nonverbal Frisk, brief mentions of violence early on but nothing too graphic i hope, genocide nightmares, sans and frisk being traumatised together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:19:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5104448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparrows/pseuds/Sparrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It should be ironic that Sans, the laziest of lazybones, can't sleep. Frisk can't sleep either.</p>
<p>(Yet another angsty post-pacifist fic about Sans and Frisk dreaming of Bad Times.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	night terrors

It's somewhere past midnight. What hour it is exactly, Sans doesn't know, can't guess, and doesn't feel like checking. It's not important, anyway. It's past midnight, and he... he can't sleep.  
  
Or, well. The problem isn't that Sans can't sleep (that's never been an issue for him) but rather what he sees when he does. He's no stranger to bad dreams - vague memories of other timelines, previous resets, the sort of thing he can never clearly recall when he's awake - but that doesn't mean it gets any more pleasant. His eye burns blue in its socket, a gaseous blue trail glittering in the air like smoke from a signal fire. Magic sizzles through him in the marrow of his bones, and he finds himself leaning back against the couch and staring at the ceiling.  
  
When he closes his eyes, there's only red behind the lids. He's lost count of how many times he'd killed Frisk - beaten them bloody against the walls and floor and ceiling of that golden corridor, skewered them on bones, burned them in the blazing light of a skull blaster until the smell of burnt wool and flesh and hair had filled the air. Once or twice he'd pinned them down, wrapped his fingers around their neck, pressed down until he felt something fragile gave way.  
  
Sans's eyes snap open and he takes in a shuddering gasp of air. He presses both hands against the fabric of the couch - it's the same old, ratty thing they'd had in Snowdin, because if monsterkind must live on the surface then everybody seems determined (hah) to keep some measure of familiarity with them, and the skeleton brothers are no different - and tries to forget the feeling of Frisk's throat under his hands. The fabric is rough when he rubs it between thumb and forefinger. He traces a hole in the arm with the tip of one finger, takes in the texture of torn cloth and soft foam and focuses on it.  
  
The memory fades, slowly, and Sans sighs as his eyes drift shut again. He should probably head back to bed and try to get some rest, but he can't muster up the willpower to actually move. He's no stranger to nights spent sleeping on the couch like this, so it's not so bad.  
  
A hand lands gently against his kneecap and Sans nearly leaps out of his seat entirely. Frisk blinks up at him, bleary-eyed and frowning just a little, and with a rare bout of colossal effort Sans reins in the wild flare of magic running through his bones like live wires. A skull blaster winks out of existence behind Frisk, only a moment from firing and fortunately going entirely unseen by the small child. The glow of his eye sputters and fades, returning both sockets to their usual bright pinpricks of white light.  
  
"H-Hey, Frisk. When'd you get here...?" It takes Sans every bit of concentration he has to keep his voice from wavering too much, and he grins shakily as he pats the couch beside himself with one hand. "You can't sleep either, huh?" Frisk pauses midway through trying to climb onto the couch, one slippered foot already hooked up onto the cushion, to shake their head. It's not unexpected that Frisk is having problems sleeping; this isn't the first time they've met like this, both of them too scared of their own memories to sleep, it's just that... that...  
  
Sans is terrified that at some point, eventually, something like this is going to happen and he'll be lost too deep in memories to remember which timeline he's in, to notice the child in front of him has brown eyes and not red, that they're wearing a striped onesie instead of a dusty old sweater. He rubs his hands against his face, catching a thumb against the corner of one socket and rubbing it. That eye aches, sometimes, especially on nights like these. Like his body is remembering how far he'd had to push himself, over and over and over again. He carefully stamps down on the magic trying to creep along his vertebrae.  
  
Frisk stares at him, all dark-eyed and solemn in the moonlight, and Sans sighs. He waits as Frisk adjusts their balance and brings up both hands, signing out a hesitant question.  
  
"S'just bad dreams, kiddo. Nothing new." He shrugs, forcing the gesture to be casual, but Frisk doesn't seem convinced. They pout at him, hands moving again. "No, it's okay, really. 'Sides, you should be in bed. How come you're not?"  
  
Frisk's hands - halfway through angrily signing a counter-argument - go still, tumble into their lap, and their face turns pale. Sans recognizes the fear on their face immediately, but before he can take back what he's said and maybe crack a joke to lighten the mood, Frisk lifts their hands again. Their signs are sloppy, muddled by fatigue and general inexperience, but he gets the gist of it.  
  
They've got the same problem as him, except it's worse - not just dreaming of other timelines, but dreaming of their own death and the deaths of everybody else. Again, nothing new, but Sans hates being reminded that he's not the only one suffering. At least he, in some way, deserves it. Frisk's hands tremble and falter partway through a sign and, wordlessly, Sans opens his arms. They scramble across the couch and settle into his lap. It ought to be awkward, hugging a skeleton, but if Frisk minds they definitely don't show it, pressing their face into his shoulder and hooking both arms around his ribcage, fingers splayed over his shirt. His hands settle against Frisk's back, uncertain at first before he manages to calm down and relax.  
  
They stay like that for a long time. This late, there's no noise to be heard in the house; even Papyrus's snoring is faint, muted by distance and the heavy wooden door between his room and the main body of the house. There's just the quiet snuffles of Frisk's breathing and the faraway sound of an owl hooting somewhere to break the silence. Sans lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, pressing his forehead into the top of Frisk's hair and closing his eyes.  
  
They're going to be okay. They're all going to be okay.  
  
Maybe if he tells himself that often enough, he'll start to believe it.


End file.
